


hollow of a heart

by MissFaber



Category: Once Upon a Time (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Fusion, F/M, Minor Violence, Multi, Romance, Werewolves
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-06-11
Updated: 2014-06-21
Packaged: 2018-02-04 05:30:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 11,433
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1767244
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MissFaber/pseuds/MissFaber
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Emma, a newly bitten werewolf, doesn’t exactly have a bright outlook on the future—and when King George’s werewolf hunters put their blades at her neck, things hit a new low. But a rescue from a girl she doesn’t know (or trust) leads her to her pack—and their infuriating, charming, handsome alpha, Killian. Adventures, bonding, and pack dynamics ensue.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. my body is a cage (that keeps me from the one I love)

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: I do not own Once Upon a Time or its characters, and I make no profit from the telling of this tale. Chapter title from Arcade Fire.
> 
> This story demanded to be written. I really wanted to read a good captain swan werewolf tale, and when I couldn't find one, I decided to write it. While this initially was supposed to be a one-shot, it took on a life of its own. 
> 
> A couple notes: this story exists in the Enchanted Forest (in King George's kingdom, to be precise), the curse never took place, and Killian never went to Neverland. All other worldbuilding details will come up in the story.
> 
> Enjoy!

She wakes up to the sound of bells somewhere far, far above her.

“Prince James ought to ‘ave heard that….”

The man’s words fade into nothing. Emma blinks against the darkness, trying to get it to take shape. Something is blurring the edges of her vision, making her dizzy, turning the man’s words into indistinguishable warbles.

The echo of the bells grow louder, resonating in the ache that pounds against her temple. It feels _awful_ , it feels like hell, and Emma wants nothing more than to give into the inviting black of unconsciousness. But the pain in her head gives her clarity, clears away the spots in her vision. She can feel a sharp pain in her wrists—that helps too. For just a few moments, she can make out the shape of her legs splayed ahead of her in the grass, crossed at the ankles and _tied_.

Suddenly, she can feel her heartbeat in her ears. She’s tied up—in the woods—how did she _get_ here—?

“King George will be very pleased.”

—and _everything_ comes rushing back to her. The memories are like wounds and she blinks back tears—now isn’t the time. She needs to be fully conscious, in control. She needs to get away. Making a snap decision, she decides to twist her wrists against whatever binds them.

She suspected that they’d laced the cuffs that hold her wrists with some kind of poison—and she is right. Stabbing pains shoot up her arms, and Emma screws up her eyes and grits her teeth against the force of it, struggling not to make any noise. The pain clears the fog in her head. She’s shaking, but the voices of the men keeping her captive seem to be somewhere behind her, which is good. She doesn’t want them alerted to her conscious state just yet.

“Aren’t you worried about her pack?” one of the men says. He sounds young, and scared. “What if they come for her, before the prince does? It’s just us two.”

“Don’t be foolish,” the other man snaps—a much older man, by the sound of his voice, and probably the one who tied her up. “ _Just_ us two? She’s drugged, in _human_ form. And it’s a week past wolftime. _And_ we have the aconite.”

If the younger man is cowed, it is not for long. “But what about her _pack_?”

Emma hears a shuffle of leaves and snaps her eyes shut. She can hear and then _feel_ the man coming closer, and she forces her heartbeat to slow and her expression into neutrality.

“Nah,” the man says, and the exhale of his voice is much closer than Emma anticipates. “This one’s an omega. If she had a pack, they would have come for her a long time ago.”

“She’s alone,” the younger sighs, as though he is relieved to know it. To Emma, it feels like the world is ending.

Alone? _Again?_

“No, she isn’t.”

There is a sudden scuffle as the men scramble to adjust to the newcomer—undoubtedly a woman, from her voice. Her heightened senses pick up on the whisper of metal against leather, and Emma can picture them unsheathing their swords.

“Who are you?” the older man sneers.

“It doesn’t matter,” the woman says. Her voice is soft and calm. “What matters is who _you_ are.”

“That’s right! We’re members of the Royal—”

“Yes, King George’s Royal Hunters, I’m _aware_.” The words drip with complete disdain. It takes all of Emma’s willpower to ward off her curiosity, and keep her eyes closed. “You’re trained to kill werewolves. How noble of you.”

There’s a long, pregnant pause. Then: “Just who the _hell_ do you think you are?”

Emma can’t sit idly anymore. With a significant amount of effort, she pushes herself onto her elbows and turns her head. The two men stand with their backs to her, swords raised, but between them she can glimpse the woman who’s facing them down. She can see the pale, round face, the outline of a bow strapped to her back. With one hand, the woman pulls a pale hood away from her head. With the other, she pulls a long thin something from the folds of her cloak.

“I’m Snow White,” she says, and in a sudden flurry of motion the men fall like two sacks of potatoes at her feet.

Emma blinks. The woman—Snow White—is lowering a thin wooden tube from her mouth. Emma cranes her neck and spots the feathered tip of a dart protruding from the man’s cheek.

“That should have been quicker,” Snow White grumbles to herself as she tiptoes over the men, and Emma wants to scoff. She thinks she can hold her own pretty well in a fight (in human form), but this woman just completely dismantled two men in a matter of seconds—in human form. Snow White is so confident in her abilities that she strode up to them, not bothering with camouflage or subtlety, carrying a conversation until she decided it was time for them to go down.

Or maybe that isn’t confidence, Emma decides, catching the glares Snow White casts each of the men’s unconscious forms. Maybe it is something more like anger.

She approaches Emma, and Emma reflexively crawls backwards, away from her. The movement sends lances of pain up her arms and through her head, causing Emma to grimace.

“Don’t move so much.” Snow White is suddenly kneeling beside her, one hand guiding her head to rest on her shoulder. “Let me reach over and untie these….”

A minute later, Emma’s legs are freed, and she stretches them out cautiously. The muscles burn.

“I don’t know what they gave you, but you’re clearly drugged.” Snow White’s fingers are on her chin, turning her face towards her. Emma jerks herself out of her grip, pain be damned. Snow White is undeterred, leaning in and peering into Emma’s eyes as though looking for something.

“No, _not_ poisoned,” she decides. “Thank the gods. But…”

Her voice drifts off as she tilts her head, and then Emma hears her suck in a sharp breath. “Gods, they coated these cuffs with something…”

“Aconite,” Emma supplies. Her wrists must look as bad as they feel.

Snow White winces. “I’m sorry you had to go through that.”

Something about that—the sincerity in her tone or the worry in her eyes—forces Emma to pull back, eyes narrowing suspiciously. “Why do you care?”

Surprisingly, Snow looks hurt. “I’m—I’m a wolf, too.”

Emma sucks in a breath. “That… sucks.”

Snow laughs. Emma tries to, but it comes out shaky. Snow’s disdain for the hunters now makes sense—but the fact that she is a wolf doesn’t quite justify her presence, why she would even attempt to help Emma.

“Didn’t really answer the question, though. Why are you helping me?”

Snow’s brow furrows, as though the answer is the most obvious thing in the world. “I told you. I’m a wolf, you’re a wolf.”

Emma barely keeps from rolling her eyes. “By that rationale, all humans should go around saving each other too. But _that_ doesn’t happen.”

“Wolves are different,” Snow says, undeterred. “We thrive on community. We’re stronger together—in a pack. Literally, physically stronger.”

“Humans would be stronger together, too,” Emma mumbles. She stares at the patch of grass at her feet, afraid of what Snow would see in her eyes if she holds her gaze.

It’s a moment before Snow speaks. “Well, wolves are… hunted. We’re a minority. We need to stick together.”

Emma sighs. _No_. She does not need this. She does not need the burden of someone else who carries this curse. She doesn’t want the reminder.

“Look, I’m grateful for your help. But I do better on my own.” The words, so well-rehearsed, taste like ash in her mouth.

Snow’s mouth twists, as though fighting to keep from saying certain words. She loses the battle. “I don’t buy that for a _second_.”

Emma’s mouth opens, then closes. “Excuse me?”

Snow’s eyes soften. “You’ve clearly been through a lot. I’m not going to convince you to join my pack tonight, or anything like that—

The hunter’s words come back to her: _if she had a pack, they would have come for her_. “Your _pack?”_

Snow nods, as if it is the most obvious thing in the world. “Wolves aren’t meant to be alone.”

Emma presses her fingers to her temples—this is getting to be too much. “Okay, no, I have no idea who you are, I just _can’t_ —”

“You don’t have to make any decisions right now,” Snow is quick to say, lifting her hands as though in surrender. “But we have treatments for your hands, medicine for your head. Food.”

Emma considers it—just for a second. “I’ll be alright.”

Snow’s expression falls. Emma is startled at the genuine disappointment in her face. “Alright. Let me just undo the cuffs.”

Emma sits still as Snow draws something else from the folds of her cloak, something that she fiddles with at Emma’s back until the cuffs snap and fall away from her inflamed skin. A moment later, Snow is standing in front of her, one hand extended. Emma takes it, lets her help her up.

“Thank you,” Emma says. She isn’t just thanking her for the hand, but she doesn’t quite know how to voice that, and she hopes Snow can tell.

Snow’s bright smile tells her she can.

“I just have one question,” Snow says, and Emma should have known she wouldn’t let it go. “Do you have a place to sleep tonight?”

Emma tries to keep her expression neutral, tries to act like that question doesn’t tear her apart. _No. Not anymore._ “Yeah, I’ve got somewhere in mind.”

“Please tell me you aren’t thinking of sleeping in a doorway or a stable or something like that.”

Emma raises her eyebrows at that. Snow doesn’t look like _royalty_ exactly, but she ticks off the places to sleep as if she has personal experience with them. Emma wasn’t expecting that.

Snow seems to sense the direction of her thoughts, and her lips quirk up slightly in the corners. “We’ve all been there. Life as a werewolf can be hard.”

“No kidding,” Emma mumbles beneath her breath.

“But it doesn’t have to be _as_ hard,” continues Snow. Emma wonders if she ever loses that slightly hopeful lilt to her voice. “So let me rephrase my question. Do you have somewhere _safe_ and _warm_ to sleep tonight?”

Emma thinks of the bed she’d had just a fortnight ago, of the man she shared it with. Both are out of her reach. She blinks, shocked at how the thought stings her.

“No, I don’t.”

Snow takes a step closer, and—after a moment of hesitation, as though gauging whether or not Emma was going to attack her for what she was about to do—put a hand on Emma’s shoulder. “You do now.”

* * *

At the concealed side-doorway of the low, long building Snow led her to, a short man is standing guard. He jumps at the sight of them—“ _Snow!”_ —then throws himself into Snow’s arms.

Snow lets out a short laugh, her arms wrapping around him. “Leroy, what is it? I was just out on patrol!”

“All _night!”_ Leroy pulls away, and Emma can see the way his scowl twists his entire face. He looks as though he can’t decide whether to yell at Snow or hug her again. “And you went much further into the woods than you were supposed to. Charming just about convinced Killian to send out a search party.”

“He _didn’t_ , did he?”

“Not yet. But you better get inside and show them you’re alright.”

“I’ll do that.”

Leroy’s gaze lands on Emma, beady eyes narrowing in suspicion. Snow seems to remember Emma’s presence. “Oh! Leroy, this is Emma.”

After watching Emma for what seems like a full minute—Emma draws herself up to her full height—Leroy rolls his eyes. “Oh—now I understand. Snow, did you turn your patrol into a rescue mission?”

“Leroy.”

“Let me guess,” Leroy says, directing his attention to Emma. “You’re an omega, got caught by hunters, Snow saved you.”

“ _Leroy_. Don’t be rude!”

“That’s alright,” Emma says, tone icy. “I’ve dealt with rudeness—and _hunters_ —my whole life.”

Snow bites her lip. “Well, I have to deal with Charming… I _was_ going to ask Leroy to take you to the infirmary—”

“Can’t. I’m on guard duty.”

Snow glares at him. “Then I guess I’ll have to… oh! Belle!”

A brunette girl has just passed through the end of the dimly lit corridor. At Snow’s shout, she approaches. “Snow, you’re okay!” Her smile is as bright as her blue eyes. “And who’s this?”

“Emma,” Snow answers. “Listen, I need you to take her to the Infirmary.”

Belle’s smile immediately falls, her worried gaze moving over Emma. “Sure.”

“And don’t let _anyone_ else in there. Just Jefferson, okay?”

“Yes, I understand.” Belle waves Emma inside. Snow gives Belle’s shoulder a short, grateful squeeze as she passes through the doorway. A moment later, she’s turned at the end of the corridor and disappeared.

“Let’s get you to the infirmary, shall we?”

Emma nods. She’s sore and _exhausted_ —her legs are burning and there seems to be a bell clanging around in her head. She doesn’t even want to think about the pain in her wrists.

Instead of following the path Snow took, Belle leads her through the first doorway on the right side of the corridor. It leads down a set of stairs. At the base of the stairs is a large window, and as Emma is led through this new corridor she can see that it is lined with several more. Emma recalls Snow telling her as they approached that the building was mostly underground—but how could there be _windows_ underground?

Belle must have caught the surprise or confusion in Emma’s eyes, because she lifts a hand and explains brightly, “We have a witch living with us.”

Emma doesn’t have time to react; they reached the infirmary. Beyond the open door is a large room littered with cots and an assortment of comfortable chairs. The walls feature more of these “magical” windows, through which Emma can barely discern the stars. At the back of the room is a long wooden table covered with an odd assortment of vials, plants, fabric, and books. A man with an odd velvet hat is hunched over one of the large, leather-bound volumes.

Belle clears her throat. “Jefferson.”

The man lifts his head, eyes alight and mouth open as though to greet Belle—but his mouth snaps shut as his eyes zero in on Emma. He’s by her side in a flash, one hand on her arm leading her to one of the cots.

“Do you know what happened?” he asks Belle, though he doesn’t shift his gaze from Emma.

“I’m right here,” Emma pipes up, irritated. “You can ask me.”

Jefferson raises a brow at her, as though amused at her impatience, then returns his gaze to Belle, expectant. “No,” she answers. “Snow brought her and told me to bring her down here. Those marks on her hands look like—”

“Aconite,” Jefferson completes, then looks up at Emma, as though for confirmation. She nods. “Thank you, Belle, you can leave us.”

Belle does just that, with a warm “feel better” to Emma.

In the next few minutes, Emma comes to the conclusion that Jefferson must be one of the most focused people on the planet. He falls completely silent, fixated on his task. Jefferson examines her wrists carefully, bringing them so close to his face his nose is barely a hair’s breadth from her skin. He leaves her for a few moments, moving to the table and piling supplies into his arms, which he brings to Emma’s side. His large hands are surprisingly gentle and precise as he treats her.

When he is finished, Emma stares at the bindings at her wrists, fascinated. They are made of some sort of sea-green, surprisingly cool and strangely elastic fabric. Emma’s never seen anything like it before.

“Are they hurting you?”

“No. Thanks, um… Jefferson.”

“The pain will subside in a few hours,” Jefferson tells her. “By tomorrow morning, it will have lessened considerably. In a week you should feel no pain at all, but you do need to keep the bandages on for longer than that, so that the skin can heal…. two weeks, I’d say. I’ll need to change the bandages tomorrow morning, then again every three days. I did all I could, but I’m afraid it _will_ scar… aconite is one of the deadliest poisons known to man _and_ wolf. There isn’t a known antidote, if it’s ingested… at least not one that _I_ know. But as a surface wound, it can be treated.”

Emma blinks. “Wow. Um…”

Jefferson laughs, and it transforms his face. “I’m sorry. I get kind of… intense, when I work.”

“No kidding.”

“My apologies. I didn’t even ask your name.”

“Emma.”

“Emma. Now, it isn’t—”

“ _Don’t_ go in there yet, Killian, or I swear to the _Gods_ I will skin you in your sleep!”

Emma looks at the door, startled. That’s undoubtedly Snow, and she sounds angry. She casts Jefferson an alarmed look, but he only looks amused.

“Worry not, lass. I’ll be… how would you put it? _Charming_.”

Emma hears the distinct sound of male laughter from a third party, but Snow does not sound amused. “ _Killian_. She’s still with Jefferson!”

“Considering I’m the alpha of this pack, and that it’s already _abhorrent_ that you’ve not only disobeyed me, Snow, but you’ve brought a stranger into my compound and then into my infirmary—”

“She was hurt!”

“The merits of your actions are not my concern. It’s more the rampant disregard for my authority.”

“I’m not saying—”

Snow never gets the chance to say what she was not saying, because the infirmary door bangs open, bringing with it a small crowd. The man in the forefront—tall in a black leather coat—barges in. Snow and two other men stand by the door, looking slightly uncertain.

“Well,” the man in the leather coat—Killian?—drawls. “ _You_ don’t look fatally injured, love.”

His eyes are an intense blue, and they move over her in a way that makes her uncomfortable. As with Leroy, Emma draws herself up to her full height. “That’s because I’m not. And _don’t_ call me that.”

“ _That_? I wouldn’t call you ‘that’. Horribly impersonal. And confusing. I don’t think anyone would know who I was talking about.”

He’s grinning at her, eyebrow raised. Emma scoffs. “Do you think you’re funny?”

“Terribly.” He gives her a final once-over before redirecting his attention. “Jefferson, mate. _Is_ she fatally injured?”

“No.”

“Can she walk?”

“It’s her wrists. She’ll be fine.”

Killian nods. “I’m not one to throw someone to the wolves—pun intended. You can spend the night. Then best be on your way, love.”

Emma is about to agree—she had no intention of staying—but the crowd by the door all seem to have very strong opinions about this.

“Don’t make her leave!”

“We should talk about this, mate.”

“Killian, ask her what she wants, at least.”

He holds up a hand, casting an annoyed look at the group standing by the door.

“I don’t intend to stay,” Emma announces. Everyone (except Snow, but especially Killian) looks surprised at this announcement. Emma straightens her shoulders and hops off the cot, ignoring the pounding in her head and the ache in her muscles, both of which intensify at the movement. “Thank you, Snow, for everything. And Jefferson. But I should be going.”

She’s a step past Killian when he reaches out an arm to stop her. “I meant it when I said you could stay the night.”

Slowly—so as not to give into the urge to punch him in the face—Emma pries his hand off her arm. “And I meant it when I said no.”

“I don’t think you quite know who I am, lass.” Killian tilts his head to one side, his tongue running over his teeth in a way that decidedly irks Emma. “I’m the alpha of this pack. Do you know what that means?”

Emma observes his entitled, authoritative manner, and takes a leap of faith. “Let me guess. You’re the captain?”

A slow smile spreads on Killian’s face. “Yes, I quite like how that sounds. I’m Captain Killian Jones, which means that around here, what I say goes. Present company excluded, apparently,” he says, casting a withering glance at Snow and her companions.

“Well _I_ am not a part of your pack,” Emma says. “So if you will excuse me—”

“Don’t think you’ve learned enough wolf lingo yet, darling. I’m the alpha, yes. You’re an omega. Do you know what _that_ means?”

 _She’s alone_. “No.” It’s not exactly a lie, but Emma doesn’t have the heart to say anything else.

“It means you’re packless,” Killian elaborates. “Lone wolf. No one to protect you.”

“I can protect myself.”

“Clearly,” Killian says dryly, casting a significant glance at her bound wrists. Emma bristles.

“You don’t know me.”

“No, I don’t. But am I right in suspecting you haven’t passed many moons as a wolf?”

Emma’s silence is enough confirmation. She feels herself bristle with annoyance—how transparent _is_ she to these people?

“Thought so,” Killian says. “If you leave, you might not pass many more.”

“I can—”

“You’re young,” Killian cuts her off. “Inexperienced. You’re still getting accustomed to the wolf. And you’re hurt.”

“Stay the night,” Snow interjects, her high tone suggesting she’s been bursting to speak for a while. “You'll feel better in the morning, and you can decide what to do then.”

“The hunters have been particularly active lately,” adds the man on Snow’s left, a man with a full beard the color of chestnuts.  

“Listen to my insubordinate betas, darling,” Killian says, voice tinged with faux-sweetness. “They know best.”

“Oh shut it, Killian. You know this is the most fun you’ve had in weeks.”

“I will have a serious talk with you later, Graham,” promises Killian. Graham, the man with the chestnut beard, seems unthreatened by this. Killian redirects his attention to Emma. “Still leaving, love?”

She doesn’t _want_ to. If she leaves, she has no idea where she’ll sleep, and she knows sleeping is the first thing she has to do. She feels positively drained, and she suspects the effect of the drug haven’t worn off completely yet. Her senses feel slightly dulled, as if she were Emma before the bite. It would take a lot of time and work to find somewhere she felt safe enough to let her defenses down enough to sleep. And she has _no_ idea what she’ll do after that.

The whole thing feels… unappealing.

“Where will I sleep?” Emma asks, because it’s the last excuse she has.

“We have a ton of room,” Snow pipes up. “You can stay with me.”

“It’s more comfortable than the infirmary.” Jefferson gestures to a threadbare cot.

Emma squares her shoulders. In the last twenty four hours, she’s been chased, drugged, rescued, tied up with poisoned handcuffs, brought to a strange place filled with stranger people, and betrayed by the man she loved. A comfortable bed for the night sounds _lovely_.

“Alright.”

Snow leaps forward and takes her hand, smiling widely. Killian, too, wears a grin as he throws an arm over her shoulders.

“Welcome aboard, lass.”


	2. standing on a stage (of fear and self-doubt)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you enjoy this next part. I apologize for the Aladdin reference you will surely all recognize. I couldn’t resist.

Snow’s room is quaint and lovely—the bedspread is white and appears to be hand-stitched, and there are two shelves above the bed, covered in knickknacks. Emma can’t remember the last time she walked into a room that was this… _lived in_ , let alone slept in one.

“We haven’t had to move in two years,” Snow says, as though reading her thoughts. “We’ve worked hard to make it safe here.”

Snow lends her a nightgown and asks her, more than once, if she needs anything. But Emma is far too exhausted to do anything more than change out of her clothes and collapse on the smaller bed in the corner.

When she wakes up the next morning, she’s overwhelmed by several sensations at once. She knows she is alone in the room, she can hear the distant sound of running water, and the pain in her wrists has dulled to an ache. Emma sits up, slow and cautious, but discovers there is no need. Her head feels fine, and her limbs are only slightly sore, as though the pain of yesterday was only a bad dream. She knows she’s alone—her ears immediately pick up on the lack of footsteps or breath anywhere in the vicinity. The drug the hunters gave her must have worn off completely; her heightened wolf senses are back.

Snow was kind enough to leave a fresh set of clothes and a fluffy towel on the foot of her bed, Emma quickly discovers. The promise of a bath makes Emma jump to her feet. Bundle of clothes in her arms, Emma leaves the bedroom. The sunlight streaming in through the windows suggest it is somewhere around noon. Her sensitive ears follow the sound of running water until she locates a large room with several closed off sections, each containing a small bath. After a wash and the fresh set of clothes, it feels good to put her damp hair up in a small knot at the nape of her neck. She discovers that Jefferson’s bandages are rather resilient, not being affected by the water at all.

“Hey! You must be Emma!”

Emma turns. A tall brunette with huge green eyes and a pearly white smile introduces herself as Ruby. “Killian’s second in command,” she claims. “He doesn’t like to admit it.”

Despite herself, Emma grins. “I can imagine that.”

“You don’t even know the half of it.” Ruby’s smile is conspiratorial, as though the two of them were planning something mischievous. “Truth is, he has every _right_ to act like a dictator—that’s how most packs are.”

“Are they?” Emma bites her lip as soon as the question is out, suddenly embarrassed. She knows nothing about wolves—not a thing, and flaunting her lack of knowledge isn’t something she’s planning on. But Ruby seems keen on sharing information, and Emma can’t help her curiosity.

“Yes. Most packs are more... linear in structure, with the alpha holding all the power, deciding everything alone. They have total responsibility for their pack, but also total control over them.”

That doesn’t sound at all inviting to Emma—Ruby’s use of the word "dictator" seems accurate, and Emma has no interest in that. “But it doesn’t work that way here?”

“No. Killian shares power. Don’t get me wrong, he’s still far too arrogant for his own good…. but he’s as diplomatic as he is insufferable. We have a sort of unofficial council, and Killian doesn’t make any decisions unless everyone’s on board. And we all disobey him all the time."

Ruby laughs, and she seems to take Emma’s half-smile as encouragement. “I can’t believe he didn’t tell me about you last night. I mean yes, I was helping Regina deal with the roof crisis… _but_ that’s not why I’m here,” she chuckles, pushing her hair out of her eyes. “I wanted to welcome you to the pack, _officially_.”

Emma feels something twist in the bottom of her stomach. “I don’t think I’m staying.”

“Well, you _are_ staying for lunch,” Ruby insists, linking her arm through Emma’s and leading her out the door. “It’s almost time.”

Ruby leads Emma through the halls, talking about the rooftop crisis she had to deal with the night before. Emma half-listens, preoccupied with observing their surroundings—as well as the people ( _wolves_ —the thought doesn’t fit right in Emma’s head) they pass. They all look so _normal_ , dressed casually like Ruby, though Emma does spot one man with a bow strapped to his back. Most of them greet Ruby—they all seem to know each other—a few stopping for some quick conversation. They cast Emma curious glances, but to her surprise, none ask any questions. They do inquire about the infamous rooftop crisis, and Ruby assures all that everything is fine. Emma recognizes Belle, who inquires after her health. It feels strange, having someone ask after her.

“That was August,” Ruby says, after a man with several large sacks in his arms and a frantic look in his eyes told them that he was late, yet again, to help cook lunch. “He’s always late, especially for kitchen duty… anyway, here we are!”

Ruby pushes past a pair of large wooden doors into what seems to be laughter and light. Emma blinks. The eastern wall is lined with windows, the brilliant noon sunlight pouring in. The room itself is large—definitely the largest room Emma has ever stood in. Along the back wall is a long wooden table. Couches, chairs, and rugs are strewn along the rest of the space. Along the western wall is a large fireplace.

“We call it the Open Room,” Ruby says, a tinge of amusement to her voice as though she can sense Emma’s wonder, and Emma thinks that it is quite appropriately named. 

Ruby leads her to one of the couches, one that looks particularly comfortable. Snow is sitting there, and after a quick hug she introduces Graham—Emma recognizes his name and face from the night before. “Good to see you up and about, Emma,” he says, before offering to fetch her some tea. Emma immediately refuses—it’s her knee-jerk reaction, and she’s too surprised at the kindness of the gesture to do anything else. But Snow agrees with Graham.

“It can only help. You were drugged yesterday, after all.” Snow stands. “I’ll come with you, Graham. I’m on kitchen duty anyway, Charming’s waiting for me.”

“Who’s Charming?” Emma asks Ruby, curious about the unusual name.

“Her _true love_ ,” Ruby says, her voice teasing but her eyes fond. “You’ll meet him soon enough.”

Emma tries not to let her shock show at this piece of information, as Ruby goes on about Charming. Ruby mentions Snow’s love so _normally_ , as normal as the red blouse on her back or the tea Graham is fetching. None of these things have been staples of Emma’s life, and even less so since the bite. She didn’t realize werewolves could have any of this—the normalcy, the stability, the nightgowns in Snow’s closet, the closet _itself_ , the glass unicorns above Snow’s bed. And love is the most far-fetched of these things, yet Ruby doesn’t seem to think so. Emma didn’t realize werewolves could _have_ love—could have the time and the leisure (or the right). A part of her still wonders if they can, if Ruby and the others are just fooling themselves in this little unrealistic bubble with its magical windows, before the real world comes crashing around their ears and shatters the illusion.

She decides not to voice any of these thoughts to Ruby, and is grateful when Graham chooses that moment to return with the tea. Her nose picks up on a lovely hint of cinnamon. It’s piping hot—so hot Emma can feel its pleasant burn as it travels down her throat.

“I remember that day,” Graham says, as he takes a seat beside Ruby. After a moment, Emma realizes he is commenting on the last part of Ruby’s story—which Emma heard none of. “Charming whipped out his sword like it would make a difference against Leroy. He was such a little _pup_.”

“He learned soon enough,” Ruby says fondly. “Like his _sword_ could do anything against Leroy. Leroy’s been a wolf for… gods, who _knows_ how long…”

“Not longer than you,” Graham quips, earning himself a smack on the arm from Ruby. But Graham is smiling when he explains to Emma, “Ruby’s _old_. The oldest wolf in the pack.”

Ruby hits him again, though her smile is as wide as Graham’s. “Shut _up_!”

“How are _you_ the oldest?” Ruby looks younger than her, Emma thinks—younger than Graham, and definitely younger than Leroy.

“Wolves age differently,” Ruby explains. “Now that you’ve been bitten, you’ll start to notice it. In a few years. Physically, you’ll start to age much more slowly.”

Emma tries to wrap her head around this. Maybe there is a perk to being a wolf after all, she thinks sarcastically. “How long ago were you bitten, then?”

“Oh, I wasn’t bitten,” Ruby says off-handedly. “I was born a wolf.”

Emma’s jaw drops. Her expression must have been quite comical, because Ruby laughs and reaches over to pat her arm. “Yes, it’s possible. Rare, but possible. Werewolves had to come from somewhere, right?”

“Wow,” Emma breathes. “And I thought I had problems.”

To her relief, Ruby laughs. Emma gets the sense that Ruby takes most things lightly. “I wouldn’t call it a _problem_.”

“Yeah. Ruby’s been aging in wolf-years all her life, which explains why she looks so… so…” Graham gestures at Ruby, the tips of his ears turning red. A slow grin is unfurling on Ruby’s face, as though she couldn’t be more delighted. “Well. Anyway.”

Ruby decides to put Graham out of his misery. “Because I was born a wolf, my abilities are stronger than most.”

“It’s true. She’s the best hunter, best tracker…” Graham trails off, and Ruby glows at his praise. “Which is why she’s second in command.”

“Oi, Graham, don’t encourage her.” Killian is approaching, sans-black-coat this morning. He brings with him the faint scent of leaves and pine—as if he’s been outside. Sure enough, his rolled-up sleeves reveal a smear of mud on his wrist, and his boots are caked with it. It occurs to Emma that she hasn’t been outside in a while—a night and an entire morning, surely a record for her. Even with _him_ (she won’t think his name) she was always on the move. They never had a place that was theirs.

Looking for something to distract her from her current train of thought, Emma counts the number of buttons Killian has open at his throat. Three.

“Second is command is a myth, mate,” he is saying.

“Oh, you mean like _werewolves_?” Ruby says with a faux-sweet smile and a flutter of her lashes.

Killian smirks. “That won’t work on me, lass. I know you too well.”

Ruby rolls her eyes before launching into a tirade about her status, her rights, and how “you have to tell me things, Killian, especially things this important!” He wears a bemused expression the entire time, and Emma can’t help but notice how different he looks in the bright light. The shadows he was cast in last night diluted his overall effect—the way his heavy dark lashes frame his eyes, for instance.

As though feeling her gaze—and he probably could—Killian’s eyes cut to Emma. “You’re still here.”

For a sheer second, Emma considers offering excuses, saying how she intends to leave just after she gets food—she is suddenly mortified that she misinterpreted something, that she somehow overstayed her welcome. But then the corner of his mouth quirks upwards, just a bit, and Emma barely keeps from rolling her eyes. Of _course_ he’s joking.

“Don’t get your hopes up,” Emma says instead.

Killian’s now full-on smirking. “Ooh, you’re a tough lass.”

Emma ignores him—the words do _not_ make her swell with pride, they absolutely do _not_ , because he doesn’t mean them—turning her gaze to Ruby. “You said something about lunch?”

“Sure. Yeah, table looks ready.”

Promptly getting to her feet, Emma makes a point of skirting Killian as she walks to the table, despite the way he leans into her space as she passes. The table looks even longer with most of its wooden seats filled up. Snow, seated near one edge, waves her over. Emma takes the seat on Snow’s right, between her and the blue-eyed, scruffy man she remembers encountering in the hall: August. Ruby and Graham take the seats across from theirs. Her heightened sense of smell picks up on several delicious aromas, and Emma feels her mouth water. But nobody is serving themselves; the platters of food in the center of the table remain untouched. It’s as though they’re waiting for something—in just a moment, Emma discovers what.

Killian walks leisurely to the head of the table, just a few spaces from where Emma sits now. He does not sit immediately. Instead, he raises a goblet filled with a deep red liquid. A complete silence falls over the table, every head turning to him.

“First order of business—props to Regina and Ruby for handling last night’s situation so well.” Ruby raises her glass for a single moment, a silent salute. A dark-haired woman at the middle of the table does the same. Emma is surprised at the serious gesture. Killian’s easy-going manner led her to believe the authority he claims to have over the pack is mostly a product of his own clearly inflated head, but the group’s total solemnity and current deference to him seems to suggest it is very real.

“Patrols will continue as usual. You all know we have increased patrols in the week after wolfstime—”

Emma has never heard the term before and is tempted to ask about it, but the complete silence in the room deters that idea.

“—but I’m thinking of sending everyone out with a partner, at least for the next week. It’s come to our attention that there’s been an unusual increase of hunters in the vicinity. Not to worry, with proper precautions we should be fine. Now… some of you may have noticed we have a newcomer. Emma. Do you have a surname, lass?”

Emma feels the color rise in her cheeks. “No,” she says, forcing her voice to be clear and her chin up.

Everyone’s eyes are on her, but Killian’s are most unsettling. There’s something quiet in them, a look that isn’t quite pity. It’s a look that says maybe he understands.

His gaze falls to her chest, and Emma’s hand rises reflexively to cover herself, fingertips resting over her silver swan necklace.

“ _Swan_ ,” Killian says decisively, shocking her. “Emma Swan. She’ll be staying with us for a while. I expect you all to be on your best behavior, so as not to reflect poorly on your captain.” A light laugh. “Nor sully his good name.” A rumble of laughter, one that shakes both Snow and August on Emma’s sides.

“I’ve kept your attention long enough. Dig in.”

They do. Emma waits just a moment, tentative—of all these new experiences, having a buffet of food to select from is certainly the strangest. She remembers a man in the market threatening to cut her hand off when she tried to snag an apple, and she’d only done it because she hadn’t had anything to eat for days. She knows that won’t happen here, but an array of hot, aromatic, delicious-looking platters is a bit too bizarre. 

Snow notes Emma’s empty plate and makes the decision for her, piling chopped potatoes and some kind of shredded meat onto it.

The first mouthful is a delightful explosion of spices and heat on Emma’s tongue. She chases it down with the red liquid in the goblet in front of her, smiling when she picks up on the sweet taste of strawberries.

After that, Emma unashamedly digs in. For a while, all that exists is her and the food—spiced potatoes and meats and bread. When she feels the first pang of fullness, she sits back—realizing she’s been going a little too fast—and takes in her surroundings. There’s a pleasant hum of friendly conversation, spiked with the occasional laugh; yet another detail of this pack’s way of existence that Emma is unaccustomed to. August and Ruby seem to be in a competition of who can retell the wildest adventure. Those around them listen with apt attention, laughing at and commenting on some of the crazier details. Killian, too, is an avid participant—except when he’s shoveling food into his mouth or talking to someone who approaches to him. Emma notes the way he completely abandons his plate when one of the diners walks up to his seat to talk to him. He pushes his chair back so that he’s facing them, giving them his complete attention. Emma counts six of these visitors by the end of the meal.

August has just finished a story involving a temple and wild monkeys, his smile smug as he claims he’s surely told the wildest story, and so he’s won.

“Not fair!” By now, most of the plates are empty, chairs creaking as everyone leans back, relaxed and full. Except Ruby, who wears an exaggerated pout. “Wait, what about Snow and Charming’s story? I was just telling it to Emma—”

“Oh, you were?” Snow beams, putting a hand on the arm of the man on her left, who in turn throws an arm over her shoulders. Emma recognizes him from the infirmary the night before—she realizes this must be the famous Charming.

“Not your story,” August is arguing with Ruby. “Doesn’t count.”

“But I know it like the back of my hand,” Ruby says, which makes Snow laugh, especially when Charming confusedly inquires as to just how much Snow told others about their love life.

“Quite a bit, mate,” Killian interjects. “Is it true you’re a screamer?”

A howl of laughter greets this, even from Charming, despite the blush in his cheeks and his quick denial. Even Emma cracks a grin.

The banter continues until people start to rise and cart off the empty plates through the door in the corner. When those immediately surrounding Emma start to do the same, Emma thinks the least she can do is help out with the dishes. She’s halfway to her feet when a hand on her shoulder and a _not quite yet, love,_ hot in her ear, still her movement.

“If you don’t mind, I’m going to help with the dishes.”

It appears that Killian _does_ mind. He moves into the space beside her, leaning on the edge of the table, his leg nearly brushing her shoulder. He looks down at her with that permanent smirk, and Emma meets his gaze, trying to appear unfazed.

It becomes clear after a few moments that he has no intention of speaking first. Emma relents, eager to get this over with. “My name isn’t Swan,” she snaps, the first thing that comes into her head.

“Do you have another surname you haven’t seen fit to mention?”

A beat. “No.”

“Do you have something against surnames in general, lass?”

“ _No_.”

“Then I don’t quite see the problem. _Emma Swan_.” He says the name ( _her_ name) slowly, rolling it on his tongue, as though seeing how it tastes. “It’s pretty. Suits you.”

Emma barely keeps a scoff in check. “Does that line always work?”

“I wouldn’t know.” He leans forward, smirking as he runs his tongue over his teeth in a way that borders on _obscene_. “Hardly ever needed it.”

“Oh, Gods.” The slight respect she started to feel for him after seeing how he dealt with the pack members evaporates at this latest attempt at flirtation. Emma stands, careful not to touch Killian, and scoops a few dishes into her arms, ignoring the way her wrists protest at the movement.

“Just a moment, lass.” Killian holds up a finger, then withdraws the plates from Emma’s grasp. Without moving his eyes from her, Killian holds the plates out to his side and calls: “Tink, would you be a dear and carry these to the kitchens for me?”

“Sure.” A petite blonde who was standing nearby takes the plates from Killian, adding them to her present load and smiling at Emma before walking away.

Emma raises her eyebrows. “Are you _really_ that against me helping with the dishes?”

“Wouldn’t let a guest participate in something so… plebian. It’s bad form.” The suggestive smirk Emma is starting to associate with him is overshadowed by a suddenly serious expression as Killian rubs a hand over his jaw. “But that’s not why. Wolfsbane can be an ache to treat.”

“Wolfsbane?”

Killian’s brow furrows, his expression mirroring Emma’s. “That’s what you were poisoned with, yes?”

Emma shakes her head. “Aconite.”

Killian curses low under his breath. “That’s— _gods_. It’s—that’s—”

He’s raking a hand through his hair, throwing dark glances at her wrists as though they are about to explode. It frightens Emma.  “ _What_? What is it?”

Her expression must have been alarming, because Killian snaps his jaw shut and swallows so hard Emma can trace the process in his throat. “Nothing. Nothing, love, don’t worry.”

“Don’t you _dare_ keep something about my health from me—”

“Aconite contains Wolfsbane, as a main ingredient, but it’s much more potent,” Killian explains in a quick breath. “Much more—lethal. _How_ are you alive?”

He’s looking at her with something akin to wonder, and it makes Emma’s words stumble. “Jefferson said he could heal it in three weeks…?”

“He would not have told you a lie,” Killian is quick to reassure her—and himself, if his subsequent monologue is any indication. “You didn’t swallow it, yes? Then Jefferson could treat it, I don’t know nearly as much about it as he… yes. I’ve seen him perform miracles.”

Emma hesitates. “So I’ll—be fine?”

Killian exhales. “Well, it _depends_ , lass. You were supposed to see Jefferson this morning. Did you?”

Damn, she forgot. “No.”

“I know, he mentioned it to me.”

Irritated, Emma snaps, “I can _take care of myself_.”

“So you’ve said,” Killian replies smoothly, unfazed by her rudeness (and she _is_ being rude, she knows—he’s just being civil, if anything this is the least irritating he’s been, trying to ask after her health and well-being… but she’s not used to that, she doesn’t know it and so she doesn’t like it, how else is she _supposed_ to react?)

Emma isn’t aware of her arms coming up to wrap around herself, but when she realizes Killian is speaking to her she finds his eyes concerned. “What?”

“I asked, why didn’t you go to Jefferson?”

“I just forgot—got caught up with— _everything_.” She lifts her arms and stretches them wide, as if trying to hold the Open Room in her palms.

Killian nods, his mouth turned up at the corners. “It’s quite a lot.” He twists his head around, looking at the Open Room, as though trying to see it through her eyes. “Alright. Good. You’ll go to Jefferson, then?”

Emma’s about to answer in the affirmative—why wouldn’t she?—but she catches something in his eyes, something that gives her pause. Killian casts his eyes to the ground before she can figure out what it is, and to her surprise he stays silent, as though he doesn’t want to push her too far—and from what she’s gathered about Killian Jones, he really doesn’t mind pushing. So why the consideration now? Emma keeps her silence until he fidgets just the slightest bit underneath her stare, but _still_ he says nothing.

This is so uncharacteristic of him that Emma nearly grabs him by the shoulders and shakes him, but then she places the look in his eyes he tried to hide. _Relief_. Relief at her explanation; but that doesn’t make any sense, because what alternative could there be?

And she realizes, with a bit of a jolt, that he _cares_.

(She doesn’t know why this surprises her—but it does. They all care, it’s obvious and overwhelming how much they do. In the last sixteen hours, Snow alone had done more things for her than everyone else had in her entire life. And that’s not counting Graham and his tea or Ruby and her kindness. And now _this_ , Killian worrying that maybe she resisted healing willfully, because of some principled stand or some escape plan or something, willing to suppress his personality if it would change her mind.)

“You care.” Emma’s voice comes out rougher than she expected it to, and she’s one again unaware of her arms moving to shield herself. “Why?”

Something snaps in Killian’s expression, breaks the guardedness in his gaze and restores the insufferable brashness she’s more familiar with. “Because I _know_.”

“What? You know what?”

“It’s not just the space and the food that’s overwhelming you,” he says, and the total confidence in his low voice scares her more than the actual words. “You’re not used to people caring about you. You’re waiting for the illusion to fall, for the conditions and the cruelty to start springing up, for the abandonment. You can’t accept that this time maybe it won’t happen. It’s all you _know_.”

Emma’s startled enough to let her guard down. Her voice is barely more than a whisper. “How do you know that?”

“You’ve got that look in your eye, love,” he says, voice considerably softer. “The look of a lost girl.”

His hand moves, barely grazing her arm. Emma—eyes staring into Killian’s own—doesn’t see it, but _feels_ it, her heightened senses causing her skin to prickle as the heat of his fingertips brush over the thin material of her sleeve. Something snaps inside Emma, causing her to take two quick steps back, to push her walls back up with a startling ferocity.

“You don’t know me,” she fumes, nearly baring her teeth.

Killian’s hand drops from midair—and for a single, exposed moment, he looks almost wounded. But then he shakes himself and pushes off the table, drawing himself up to his full height.

“Get your hands checked,” Killian says to the floor, his gaze flicking to her wrists but not her eyes as he turns quickly on his heel.

He leaves before she can, and it occurs to Emma that maybe he _does_ know her after all.

* * *

Her head is pounding. The walls that felt like a haven just an hour ago now feel positively oppressive; she needs fresh air. It takes a long time for her to find a door that leads outside. She brushes past the guard without a word, ignoring his protests and inquiries, gulping the crisp air greedily into her lungs.

In the silence of the woods, Emma finds refuge from the overbearing company. (Since when is _that_ a problem in her life?) For a few solid minutes, she does not think about Killian, or being a werewolf, or staying or leaving. She just listens to the inhale and exhale of breath, focusing on the expansion of her lungs.

The ritual is surprisingly soothing, and in a short time Emma feels much calmer. She’s not quite calm enough to think about any of these pressing issues, but she does feel guilty for alarming the guard, a young boy who now seems on the edge of a nervous breakdown. Emma turns around and apologizes, announcing her intention to return indoors.

_Get your hands checked._

His voice flits through her head before she can check it. Despite the heat that rises to her face at the thought of him, she decides to heed his words, finding her way to Jefferson’s basement office surprisingly quickly. He seems surprised to see her, voicing his intention to look for her if she hadn't shown up just then. Emma apologizes for forgetting, and they both fall into silence as he replaces her salve and bandages.

Emma is halfway up the stairs that lead to the main floor when August accosts her. On future retrospection, it occurs to Emma that she doesn’t know what she might have done if he didn't show up right then. Scared, uncomfortable, out of her element, with freshly bandaged wrists and no particular plan—so close to the door that had brought her into this compound and could just as quickly send her out—she thinks that she might have left, right then, without a word to anyone or a second thought. But August _did_ show, inviting her to watch a training session. The decision to follow him felt insignificant, and Emma doesn’t give it a second thought. But perhaps a part of her knew that August’s appearance just then was instrumental, that he may have just _saved_ her, because in the next few hours they become fast friends.

She accompanies him to the aforementioned training session, watching Charming spar against Graham, then a girl named Ariel, then August himself. August explains that there are multiple kinds of training sessions. “This one’s called a Gruel, if you can guess why,” he says with a roll of his eyes. “Killian designed it. It’s based on the idea that when any one of us is in combat, fighting for our lives, it’s not like we’re going to be fighting neatly in pairs. In every one of our heads, in _your_ head, all you can see are the people attacking you, one after the other. That’s all you see, and there’s no breaks in between. The Gruel recreates that.”

Emma doesn’t want to admit that it’s kind of genius. While August washes, Emma watches Charming fight a man named Robin. By the end of it, sweaty and panting, Charming looks just about ready to drop.

Next, August takes Emma to the library. He explains that it is not a library at all, but a makeshift library, created by Belle when she first joined the pack. “It’s basically a room with a few shelves and couches that I helped her scrape together. She was shocked that we didn’t have a place for books—and she was right. I think I might’ve been a writer in another life,” August confesses on their way in, sighing contentedly as the books come into sight.

In the library, August and Belle exchange pleasantries while Emma browses the bookshelves. She finds that they are more practical than recreational—only a handful about tales, but quite a few regarding medicine, plants, wolves, creatures, and a startling number about magic. Emma spots Jefferson sitting in one corner, chair facing the wall with a volume so large it spills over the armrests. She can’t see his face, but his velvet hat is enough of an identifier.

“Jefferson saved Belle,” August tells her on their way out of the library. “Sprung her from a cell in King George’s castle.”

“Really?”

“Yes. They’re very close friends.”

“ _Really_?” Emma casts a glance behind her, though she knows it won’t help. “They weren’t even talking to one another.”

“Oh, that’s just Jefferson. He’s…”

“Focused,” Emma volunteers. “I heard.”

“Yeah, but that isn’t it. He prefers to keep to himself. He has a tough past… something to do with a daughter, I think. He doesn’t like to talk about it.”

A window they pass informs Emma that it is nearly sunset. August draws her into the kitchen, claiming they have just enough time before the dinner crew needed it to bake one of his peach pies.

“My dad’s recipe,” he claims, proud. “You have to taste it. We should make it now, since… well, I don’t know when you’re leaving.”

Emma doesn’t know what to tell him, so instead she says that making a pie sounds like a _very_ good idea.

The process is messy and fun. Tink—“Tinkerbell, actually, but you can call me Tink,”—joins them as they are slicing the peaches. She’s bubbly with an infectious laugh, lifting Emma’s spirits considerably. Halfway through, Emma realizes she’s never baked before, never even stood in an actual kitchen before—unless she was just passing through, snatching up whatever she could fit in her pockets. She wonders how long she’s going to be here before she stops thinking: _I’ve never done this before. I’ve never had this before._

By the time they’re finished, the smell of the baked pastry is heavy and warm in the air. Laughing like giddy children, they prepare to eat—August pulls the steaming pie from the brick oven, while Tink grabs plates and Emma grabs forks. When they rush into the Open Room, they find Ruby, Snow, and Charming sitting by one of the windows. The six of them devour the pie in a matter of minutes.

Dinner is a repetition of lunch, except for two key differences. Emma, for one, is full from the pie. However, picking at her food feels like an extremely ungrateful thing to do, so instead she munches on a piece of bread. The second difference lies in Killian—he’s very noticeably quiet, eating but not speaking a word. Even when Ruby inquires as to when they’re going to post the new patrol schedules that they were apparently working on all day, Killian gives a nondescript reply and excuses himself.

Emma pretends she doesn’t notice.

Later, after helping wash the dishes, Belle prepares a pot of tea and convinces Emma to join her in the Open Room. They join Robin, Snow, and Tink by the fire. The girls boast about being off duty until late the next day. “I think that calls for something stronger than tea,” Tink says as she puts a flask from her pocket, raising cheers from the girls and eliciting a groan from Robin.

“But I want to drink!”

“ _You_ have patrols, which you need to stay sober for.” Belle softens her words with a cup of tea, taking a seat by Robin and presently falling into deep conversation with him. The girls drink. Tink passes the flask to Emma, and when she hesitates, folds it into her hands.

“You look like you could use it,” she says, a glimmer of understanding in her eyes.

So Emma drinks, feeling the pleasantly warm haze of the ale—“I _could_ get something stronger, I know where August hides the whiskey in his room”—engulf her as the night hours pass. The small crowd surrounding Emma ebbs and changes with the passing time. Ariel pops in for a quick cup of tea and a bit of conversation with Snow, introducing herself to Emma on her way out—“I’ve _barely_ got time for a nap before my patrol. I got stuck with the all night shift… but it was nice to meet you!”

(Emma can’t help but notice Killian’s absence.)

Charming and Graham join them after the end of their patrols, which had gone through dinner. Graham ducks into the kitchen for some food; Charming sits beside Snow, wrapping her in his arms and leaning in for a kiss. Emma looks away. Just then, a dark haired woman Emma mildly recognizes introduces herself as Regina. Her smile is somewhat wooden as she reaches a hand out to Emma, which she hesitantly takes. When the handshake is through, Regina moves forward, Emma forgotten as she sparks a conversation with Robin.

“Don’t take it personally,” Charming tells her, jerking his head to Regina. “She’s like that. Very… focused. Doesn’t waste her time.”

“Oh, like Jefferson,” Emma says, recalling his behavior from the night before.

“Yeah, except Jefferson has a soul,” Graham says, and laughs when Tink smacks his arm.

“Don’t talk like that,” Tink admonishes. “She’s just had a hard life.”

“Like all of us, you mean.”

“She can be _very_ kind… when she wants to be,” Tink concedes. “Besides, she’s useful to the pack. She has magic.” This last bit is directed to Emma, who suddenly wants to get a good look at this Regina—but she’s already gone. She really _doesn’t_ waste time.

Ruby, who has been popping in and out all night, announces that she and Killian completed the finishing touches on the double patrol schedules. She tacks a scroll of parchment on one of the Open Room doors, then collapses into a couch, settling into Graham as though _he_ is the chair with eyes half-shut from exhaustion, and holds a hand out silently for the flask.

Emma tells herself she _isn’t_ grateful when Snow inquires as to Killian’s whereabouts, that she _isn’t_ worried when Ruby says he hasn’t left his office all day except for dinner, and that she _isn’t_ happy when Charming offers to fetch him.

Tink is teasing August about something-or-another when Killian walks in, just a step behind Charming. Emma blinks and tries not to stare at him, not at the way his black coat shuffles behind him, nor the way the turned up collar brushes his jaw. She tells herself she isn’t relieved when he inclines his head towards her, mouth turning up at the corners.

“Swan.” Killian crashes into the space next to her. Tink passes him her flask, but he waves it away, pulling his own from a pocket in his coat. 

“Not my name,” Emma insists, but she has to bite the inside of her cheek to keep from grinning too wide.

“It’s not my necklace, darling.” He knocks back the flask, Adam’s apple working through the burn. Emma silently holds a hand out for it. She winces as the liquid travels down her throat.

“Rum,” Killian says by explanation, his grin undoubtedly at her expense.

“ _Pirate_ ,” Emma shoots back, eyes flicking between his coat and his flask and his face.

Killian cocks his head, as though considering it. “I _do_ like that idea.”

“I’m not surprised.”

“You’d make a _hell_ of a pirate.” Killian says it like it’s the highest compliment, eyes appraising and bright, and Emma feels the sudden need to change the subject.

Unfortunately, Tink takes care of that for her. “Emma! Tell us, how long have you been a wolf?”

At Tink’s question, Emma feels the ale-brought warmth drain from her. This is what she’s been dreading—so far, everyone has been volunteering information freely about themselves and the pack, but nobody has asked her to volunteer any information about herself. She should have known it was too good to be true. “Not long.”

“Have you been through a full moon yet?”

Emma nods, a single jerk of her head. “Three.”

She remembers the panic, the nausea as the shift started, overridden by the searing pain as her bones started to elongate and shift. Then blackness—then blood, all over her clothes and the surrounding leaves, a moment of dizzying panic ( _did I kill somebody?_ ) until she spotted the animal carcass. She remembers being sick in the bushes, remembers the ache in her muscles that didn’t allow her to get to her feet for quite a while. It was like that every time; pain, blackness, pain again, and, of course, the added pressure of making sure Neal didn’t find out.

Emma almost jumps when she feels Snow’s hand on hers. Her eyes are filled with sympathy—no, _empathy_ , Emma realizes, as though she senses the direction of Emma’s thoughts and knows what it’s like. _Though she can’t possibly know what it’s like_ , Emma thinks—again, a knee-jerk reaction, one she immediately feels guilty for.

“Then the worst of it is over,” Tink says, and August quickly chimes in. “Yes. The first few moons are the worst, especially if you’re alone.”

“And you’re not anymore,” Snow says decisively.

“Nope,” Ruby agrees, half-asleep.

Emma feels her face heat for a reason she cannot place. Killian’s eyes are solemn, on her, when he says: “You’ve still got those cards, lass?”

It takes Tink a moment to realize Killian is speaking to her. “Yeah, I do.”

“Fetch ‘em. I fancy a round.”

Excited, Tink does just that. In the din of conversation that arises in the anticipation of playing a card game which, Emma gleans, has been banished, Killian leans in close to her. Emma takes one look at him and holds up a hand. “Stop.”

His brow furrows. “What?”

“I know what you’re about to ask me.”

Killian grins; of course he’d find a way to be entertained, even by this. “Do you? What am I about to ask you then, love?”

Emma rolls her eyes at the pet name, but decides to play his game. “You’re going to ask me when I was turned, about the full moons, about my past, my _story_. But I am _not_ interested in sharing.”

Killian surprises her by nodding. “I know that. That’s not what I was going to ask about.”

Emma raises a brow, skeptical. “It isn’t?”

“I don’t need to _ask_ you to know your story, love. You’re something of an open book.”

Emma recalls the accuracy of his words from earlier that day— _you’re not used to people caring about you_ —and she knows she’s _not_ interested in pursuing this conversation. As much as it repels her to think it, a part of her suspects that Killian just might be able to read her like he claims, and Emma has no interest in listening to that speech. Twice in one day would just be too much.

“What were you going to ask, then?”

Killian waits a moment before giving a quiet nod: _well played_. “I was going to ask as to your intention regarding _us_ , darling.”

It takes a moment for Emma to understand his meaning. “You mean, if I’m staying?”

“Precisely.”

Emma doesn’t respond straightaway. When she does, she speaks slowly, as though voicing an incomplete thought as new parts of it are revealed to her. In a way, she supposes that’s exactly what she’s doing. “Jefferson said it’ll take three weeks for my hand to heal.”

“Three weeks,”—he speaks just as slowly—“is enough time to make a decision.”

“It’s… sufficient.”

“I’d say so. I did say so, in fact.”

“I should listen to Jefferson, I think. He seems like an expert.”

“He _is_. I can vouch for that.”

The corner of Killian’s mouth is twitching, as though he just can’t help himself. It makes Emma slightly sad to see—because people who smile like that just aren’t a staple of her life, and she can’t start expecting them to be. It’ll hurt that much more when they _aren’t_.

“When my hands are healed, I’ll be on my way,” she tells him.

She expects the small smile on his face to fall away. But it doesn’t—it grows into a bright, brilliant thing, and Killian is shaking his head and chuckling as though he knows some amusing secret.

“Oh, I don’t think you’ll be going anywhere, Swan.”

“Really? What makes you so sure?”

Killian looks away. Emma follows his gaze to where it lands on August and Charming laughing as they wave their cards victoriously, but she suspects he’s looking somewhere beyond that, to some place she couldn’t see.  “Three weeks is enough time,” he repeats, but the words seem to hold an entirely different weight now, a welcome weight that only Killian seems to know about.

Emma is tempted to ask why he thinks so—is unbearably curious. But her self-preservation instincts kick in and she decides to let it die, snagging the flask of rum from Killian’s hand just as he’s about to take a sip. She ignores his protests as she turns to watch the card game that had unfolded during their conversation, and the night passes quite pleasantly after that.

* * *

“What do you think?”

Emma is walking back to her (no, _Snow’s_ ) room, when Snow herself asks the random question. “Of what?”

“Everything!” Snow flings her arms wide and spins, causing Emma to giggle as she remembers her gesture from earlier in the day. They’re both just a tad bit drunk, she supposes.

“Hmm,” Emma taps her chin, pretending to consider. She starts to think about it—about Snow and Ruby and Graham and August, about warm food and peach pie, about Killian—but it makes her head hurt. “Well, the men are very attractive.”

“Oh _yes_ ,” Snow nods solemnly. “A definite perk.”

“Honestly, they’ve all got— _really_ nice eyes. And stubble. I mean, I didn’t know turning into a _wolf_ would mean I’d meet a lot of attractive men with beards.”

“Charming does _not_ have a beard,” Snow pouts.

“Fix it,” Emma shrugs. Snow claps her hands together and claims she will.

“But honestly. What are you doing? Will you stay?” At the last question, Snow’s voice is suddenly small, like a child’s.

“I’m—I’m staying for a few weeks. _Three_ weeks. Till my hand heals.”

“Then you’re staying.” Snow says it with as much confidence as Killian, sighing in relief and leaning into Emma’s space, leaning her head onto Emma’s shoulder. They walk like that, side by side, till they reach the room, and Snow is smiling contentedly as Emma tucks her in to sleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please leave kudos & comments

**Author's Note:**

> Please leave a comment on your way out!


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